Baby We Had a Good Thing Going

There are some days in which standing up for yourself is almost entirely impossible, in which being who you are outwardly is unacceptable in your most basic moral code, in which you find yourself in the presence of people who can strip you of every powerful wall you’ve built between yourself and reality.

I went to visit an old woman who I love just as I love my own grandmother. She is among the kindest and most well-intentioned people in my life, and for this reason, I held my tongue and let her say whatever she wanted to say, even though I was having a nervous breakdown inside.

I recently broke up with a guy who is a close family friend to both hers and my own family. I finally ended the relationship, as I should have a very long time ago, but it hasn’t sat well with anyone around me. According to them, I was throwing away a blessing. How could I just let someone who was so in love with me go?

And I watched her as she went on and on about how I might not get another shot at someone like this, and how I could have control over him and what he does if I just take him back. She told me that I might not find anyone, and then eventually end up with someone abusive. She noted that I was not perfect, and should never expect to find someone who is.

Now, how do you tell someone who has no concept of asexuality that you are ar-ace? You can’t. Instead, you listen to her tell you all the different reasons you screwed up. Instead, you let everyone in the room tell you that you’re throwing your life away. Instead, you sit down, shut up, and wish you had an explanation anyone would accept.

Instead, you wait until you go home to think about how goddamn selfish you were to date him to begin with.

A Seize, A Seize, A Public Seize

I have yet to tell this story, because it is probably the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me, very easily surpassing my mid-concert, smart-phone recorded, seizure of 2012.

I was going to class last Tuesday mind my own special type of business when I had an “aura.” An aura is something someone with epilepsy has that makes them aware that they are about to have a seizure. I was not in the most ideal place for a harlem shake; I was getting off the subway at the Broadway-Lafayette station, just steps away from being above ground, when I took the hit.

I lay down on the floor, and then came my partial seize, creeping up my left leg, not caring where I was or who was watching me. A crowd was drawn and I was the center of a very unwelcome attention, once more. Someone called the hospital, and they carted me off to New York Presbyterian Hospital.

My cousin came from New Jersey, and they discharged me, and just before she came, I got the feeling again. It was coming back, and I had to pee. I was dying to pee, but I couldn’t get out of the car. I couldn’t take another public display of bodily dysfunction.

I could not seize out there in the world, again.

We made it back to Brooklyn, and we sat outside my house, me shaking off the feeling of needing to pee and trying to push away yet another seizure.

I couldn’t get out, and I ended up having to pee in a cup in her car.

Side note: I seriously don’t know what I would do without her. I would have been beyond screwed. She drove like two hours just to make sure I got home safely. We decided to never speak of it again, but I owe her so damn much for that.

God knows what would have happened to me if I didn’t have that bitch in my life. I didn’t even ask her to come.

But I still vote worst day of my life.

My life is hell.

But that’s cool. Hell has cookies.

Oh wait, my blood sugar is unstable. I can’t even eat them.

Here’s a carrot, instead.

A-Tisket A-Tasket

There are moments in life in which we enter a state of consciousness that bears an ill-remembered resemblance to unconsciousness. It isn’t the automated actions we aren’t wired think of, but the fleeting breaths between realized instants in which we come at an absolute blank. Vilifying thoughts, recollections, feelings, each disintegrates into evanescent nonexistence, and though the use of force to cause the desist of one’s own demure thoughts for any increment of time is likely an impossibility—and an attempt to eradicate a memory by choice an inconceivable absurdity—the flashes of complete mental silence are a peaceful bounty, only if we can manage the tact to find them.

Life, for those who can truly be dubbed living, enforces two debilitating and fractious choices: either bow to the ultimate humiliation that is reality, or take the chance in stepping out of order to attempt innovation and successful freedom. The problem, unbeknownst to many who ignorantly find a compelling disposition for the latter, is that, regardless of our own consistent tendency to be obsequious or wanton attitudes, all will come to the same end when things come to a head, bar an elite few—who are in no way special. They have neither affliction nor genius, neither exceptional skill nor rewarding misfortune. They are simply lucky, and everyone struggling below the glass ceiling will continue to push until their arms tire and their hair grays. Such is life: a lurid, hellish experience with an egregious deadline that knows no age.

We can be lonely, empty, obdurate toward redemption, contrite for our very existence, afraid of the world and every enticing detail of its absolute disarray and tendency for fickleness, dissembled under a mask of fervidity that we so desperately cling to despite our constant urge to rip it off, and yet still happen to be the most upstanding individuals the people of our world have the toxic pleasure of crossing.

Therein the Theory of my Theatrical Thoughts on Theoretical Paper

The struggle inside of each living creature taking up a vastly underestimated amount of space to coexist with the ignorant and arrogant is war.The struggle to continue breathing despite the choking feeling that is more figuratively painful than physical damage, is war.

The fight between truth and desire to conquer the darkest of times is war.

In silence.

Violence in politics conceives a superficial consideration. No one cares about the government; their battle is not our battle, and the battle of their people is of minuscule importance to those in power.

In honest and completely unabashed truth, nary a place escapes the label, regardless of its population’s misguided belief in the existence of contemporary effective nationalism, religious freedom and conclusively inauthoritative free speech.

And the fictionally accurate tale that unfolds within the sequential, mildly related, pages of the compilation of my own creations will either be well-written or famous, possibly neither, and unlikely both.

But, at the very least, I will try to manage to escape becoming an attention-seeking sell-out who is celebrated for drivel that caters to an audience with the mindset of a hormonal child trapped in a whimsically unrealistic daydream.

Would that I become a writer to end all writers, a novelist to novelize revolutionary reads, a creator of plot line to be added to the seven, but ah, perchance to dream.

But I do appreciate the stereotypical arrogance that depict me alarmingly un-charming in the previous sentences.

Oh, how the tones of story-telling devolve.

Racist Shit my Boss Says

My boss has been telling me not to push my religion on people repetitively since last week. I don’t even bring up religion at all. Not even one time have I brought it up.
I feel extremely uncomfortable, but can’t do anything about it, because I’ll definitely get fired.
If I get fired, I don’t graduate.